


A Note or Two

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Crescendo [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Pining, Post-it Notes, Unconventional Correspondence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:12:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11580642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: In which Mycroft moves into a new block of flats, buys a Steinway Classic Grand piano, and has conversations via post-it notes stuck on his door with an unknown neighbour.Inspired by thistumblr post.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft's piano is a [Steinway Classic Grand](https://www.steinway.com/pianos/steinway/grand/model-b), and probably looks a little bit [like this](https://www.steinway.com/pianos/steinway/grand/model-s#69c42f0f-d6a3-4d4b-94a8-aebbcb700795) in his flat. (And in case you're interested, here's an [article/video](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/luxury/design/the-making-of-a-steinway--sons-model-b-grand-piano/) on how this model is made. Pretty incredible!)
> 
> For a chronological list of the songs referenced in this fic, I've put together a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLs2WLuS5XPWCQ7d-s7JIUlE0Lnd8dG11z) with both original songs and piano versions.

When Mycroft was barely eleven years old, he found Sherlock waiting for him in the principal’s office, cheeks ruddy and tear-stained, and his bottom lip quivering slightly. Clutching Sherlock’s small hand tightly, he walked home with the mantle of responsibility heavy on his shoulders, keenly disappointed in his parents.

By his twelfth birthday, he considered himself relatively independent.

Now, at twenty years of age and starting his career with MI5, independence is no longer a foreign concept to him. Yet as he looks at his sparse furniture and the empty packing boxes leaning against the wall of his new flat, the emptiness washing over him comes as a surprise.

It’s not quite the family house Mycroft has a yearning for, despite spending his formative years growing up there. Nor is the sense of emptiness related to his parents—after all, they were mainly emotionally distant during his upbringing, if not physically.

Perhaps part of it can be attributed to the absence of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson—officially the housekeeper, unofficially Sherlock’s personal minder, and quite honestly the only reason why he feels comfortable leaving Sherlock behind to pursue his career.

As he unpacks the final box, Mycroft tells himself that the emptiness, the sheer _sentimentality_ , is illogical and meaningless.

—

The following day, he taps into his inheritance to purchase his dream piano and has it delivered to his flat.

—

Their parents had never found it fit to upgrade the old, upright piano they had at home, choosing instead to channel their funds towards replacing or repairing damaged furniture, frequently victimised by Sherlock’s experiments. It was odd—and a little unfair, really, a small, bitter voice inside him adds—how their parents were quick to throw their money to anything pertaining to Sherlock, such as when they had a violin custom-made and given to him as a gift for his twelfth birthday. However, when the time called for it, they gave nothing to contribute to Sherlock’s emotional upbringing. Fittingly, the rare times they performed together, Mycroft was relegated to the role of the accompanist while Sherlock stood in the limelight, and his demeanour and Byronic looks naturally commanded the attention of the room.

Now, Mycroft’s ebony Steinway Classic Grand stands proud, the warm glow streaming through the window to bathe the polished maple and spruce and its elegant curves. It is the centre of attention—Mycroft’s most prized possession—and his sitting room and heart feel slightly less empty when he steps out of his bedroom each morning.

—

Order. Structure. Logic. These are all principles Mycroft gravitates towards, and so as part of his new routine he’s establishing to fit around the nine-to-five job, he practises daily for two hours with his windows ajar: 7-8am (not too early to avoid waking people up) and 5:30-6:30pm (as soon as he arrives so he can wind down before dinner).

Morning pieces are generally optimistic. It may be a little naïve of him, but he still likes the thought of a new day being a clean canvas where anything can happen. (Although growing up with Sherlock has taught him that Murphy’s law is absolute: anything that can go wrong will go wrong.)

The evening pieces have a bit more variation, primarily reflecting how his day went.

Mycroft slips into his routine with ease, until the third month of residence at his flat, that is. It's been a trying day—couple of days, really—and today he’s looking forward to nothing more than letting the day's tensions flow from his fingertips, transforming his frustrations into unbridled melodies and harmonies.

A brightly coloured post-it note affixed to his door stops him.

It’s placed relatively high up, probably at the correspondent’s eye level. The balance of probability suggests a male then, Mycroft deduces. Odd, though, that someone has gone to the efforts of taping a teabag to it. Curiosity piqued, Mycroft draws nearer, deeming it relatively harmless after a thorough once-over. Satisfied it won't trigger any traps or explosives (as many of Sherlock’s surprise packages have done in the past), he removes it from the door, discovering his mysterious correspondent has also made sure to fortify the note’s adhesive strength with Blu Tack.

 _Sounds like you had a rough day yesterday, judging from last night’s piece_ , it reads.

Slightly embarrassed, Mycroft recalls the aggressive, relentless onslaught he had drummed out on the keys when he arrived home yesterday. Rough day is quite the understatement.

_Tea makes everything better. G._

Oh. So that’s what the tea is for.

It’s a kind and thoughtful gesture, he supposes, even if the brand leaves much to be desired. PG Tips, Mycroft notes with a grimace, and Honey Lemon & Balm instead of his preferred Earl Grey or Assam—but somewhere after stepping over the threshold, he’s decided life hasn’t improved at all since yesterday, and finds himself heading into his kitchen to put the kettle on.

That evening, Mycroft throws his windows wide open and plays something a little more gentle and melodic.

—

Another week and a half passes before the next post-it note appears on his door, Thursday night to be exact. Given that he didn’t respond previously, let alone express his gratitude for the thoughtful gesture (and he may or may not have a box Honey & Lemon Balm PG Tips tucked away next to the _h_ _ōjicha_ and _karkady_ in his tea cupboard now), Mycroft was expecting that would be the only note.

The lack of appreciation doesn’t seem to have deterred the other person from initiating conversation—in fact, he seems to be hoping for it, if the handwritten message is any indication.

_Sounds like you’re feeling better. Do you take requests? G._

Mycroft frowns. There’s no flat number so he doesn’t know where or whom to address it to, were he to respond, and to be honest, he feels a little silly writing notes to an unknown person living in his building. The only clues he has are male, and the initial ‘G’.

Nevertheless, he finds himself putting pen to paper and affixing his own answer to his door.

_As you have already surmised, I play according to my mood. However, if your request is within my ability and frame of mind, I can endeavour to do so._

He hesitates briefly, and then continues to write.  

_To show my appreciation for the tea. Thank you. MH._

—

 _John Lennon’s Imagine,_ the request reads when he arrives home the following day. 

Mycroft smiles. A dreamer, huh. Ensuring his windows are wide open, Mycroft slips off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and begins to play.

Not long after he finishes the piece, he can hear a faint smattering of applause from a couple of storeys above.

—

The unconventional correspondence continues—erratically at times, and frequent during others.

It often reads of comments, mostly compliments, and occasional requests, depending on whether his neighbour has had a rough or pleasant day:

 _Shite day_. _I think The Carpenters’ Rainy Days and Mondays would go well with a can of beer and a dash of reality. G._

It was an apt choice, and Mycroft had played extra loud to make sure his unseen audience could hear his rendition over the gentle pitter patter of the rain.

Or:

_Celebrate a good day with me? Your song of choice—surprise me. G._

Just to be clever—and if he acknowledges the small voice inside him, perhaps to show off a little bit—he’d played a medley of feel good songs instead of just one, starting off with The Carpenters’ _Top of the World,_ aware that G dabbles in the duo’s songs. He’d thrown Earth, Wind and Fire’s _September_ into the hotchpotch of songs to match the month at the time, and then wound down his impromptu performance with Gene Kelly’s _Singin’ in the Rain,_ making a note to ask whether G has watched the musical in his written reply.

The requests aren’t frequent, but rather than seeing it as an imposition, Mycroft relishes in it. He loves his music, and for once it feels good to play for someone, to have his music be the centre of attention instead of a mere accompaniment.

—

Christmas rarely brought good tidings—at least not for the Holmes family. The memory of Christmas dinner a few years back had been relegated to the furthest corner of Mycroft’s mind, never to be revisited again. Ever. This Christmas, however, Mycroft’s supervisor and unofficial mentor had informed him that he’d passed his probationary period with flying colours, and that his current roles and responsibilities would change in accordance to the extraordinary capabilities he’d demonstrated thus far.  

While he wouldn’t stoop as low as to play Christmas carols, Mycroft did allow himself to pay homage to the month and the happy turn of events that evening with Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons’ _December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night)_. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the distinct tones of an electric guitar pierce into the night.

—

The promotion is a welcome challenge, providing Mycroft with more intellectual stimulation and satisfaction in his job than he’s had since he began at MI5.

Nevertheless, with greater responsibility comes longer hours.

Mornings are no longer a relaxed affair, and the hour allocated for his piano is now spent within the four walls of MI5. By the time Mycroft arrives home, it’s late and he’s ready for takeaway or a simple meal, depending on how tired he is. Unfortunately, after dinner and the clean-up, it’s usually too late to play without being disruptive to his neighbours, and his time is better spent having a shower and heading off to bed.

Still, he is a creature of habit and logic, so Mycroft makes it a point to practise for at least 30 minutes on the upright piano hidden in a barely-used room of the MI5 building, determined not to throw away almost two decades of learning and practice, and his preferred method of self-expression.

For the first few days of settling into his new routine, every time his gaze falls on his neglected Classic Grand, his thoughts stray to his appreciative audience and unconventional pen pal of sorts. Mentally, Mycroft begins to compose a message—a brief explanation detailing the change in working hours, perhaps even an apology—but busy days turn into a week and then a fortnight, and he still hasn’t written anything.

Embarrassingly enough, G beats him to it.

_I haven’t heard you play for a while. Are you okay? G._

The warm thrill that rushes through Mycroft quickly quashes any residual feelings of guilt as he plucks the post-it note and teabag from the door and brings it inside.

Mycroft drinks the tea before he sleeps—it’s camomile this time—and carefully places the post-it note in his bedside drawer alongside dozens of others.

—

Determined to show, rather than write G to reassure him of his wellbeing, Mycroft relentlessly plugs away at his current project, finishing a couple of hours earlier than anticipated. Even without the urging of his supervisor, who knows just how many additional hours Mycroft has clocked in over the past week on this project, Mycroft is quick to leave for home.

Unsurprisingly, a layer of dust has settled on his piano, a testament to how long it has been since he played it last. Mycroft gently wipes it clean and then touches his fingers to the keys, fervently hoping his gratitude for his neighbour’s concern will be conveyed through his music.

No sooner has he finished does he hear insistent knocking on his door.

“I missed you,” the young man on the other side of the threshold blurts out as soon as the door opens.

Mycroft blinks. He’s never seen this person before in his life—he’s certain he would have remembered otherwise.

“I-I mean, I missed hearing you play,” the man corrects quickly, nervously.

To Mycroft’s trained eye in interpreting even the subtlest of body language, each gesture speaks of the man’s—no, his _neighbour_ and _correspondent’s_ and _G’s_ nervousness. Mycroft watches as G runs a calloused hand through his thick, brown hair, revealing a widow’s peak that Mycroft didn’t notice earlier. The man inhales deeply, presumably to fortify himself before continuing.

“At first, I thought you might be sick—flu, or sprained finger, or hand, even—and then not long after my patrol shifts were changed, and it hit me that the times we were both in might not overlap anymore. Can you believe I threw a sickie and stayed home the entire day to see if you’d play at all?”

More nervous tells: the shaky laughter, the faint reddening of his ears.

“Part of me actually thought you’d left, but no one saw a truck…”

G trails off into a contemplative silence, and Mycroft can pinpoint the exact moment his brain finally catches up with his mouth from the mortified look that crosses his face.

“Bloody hell you must think I’m a right idiot, blabbering on like that about nothing,” G mutters, eyes downcast. “Just ignore me, I’ll be going now.”

Throughout the awkward, honest monologue, Mycroft’s face has stayed carefully blank while his mind runs in overdrive, then quickly shifts gears for Mycroft to regain composure in time for an intervention. He’s fully aware his experience with social interactions is very limited—come to think about it, outside of work, the odd correspondence he’s had with the man standing opposite him—and he even managed to fail completely at communication, to the point where his neighbour almost believed he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.

However, one thing Mycroft is confident he can get right in this unfamiliar situation is politeness, so he inclines his head slightly and says, “I apologise for causing you concern. Several times, in fact, Mister….”

“Greg. Greg Lestrade,” supplies G, no, _Greg_.

“Greg,” Mycroft repeats, testing how the name rolls off his tongue, familiarising himself with it. “I’m Mycroft. Do you want to come in?”

Greg’s eyes light up, and a brilliant smile spreads across his face. “Can I really?”

Standing to the side as he opens the door wider, Mycroft welcomes Greg in. “I’d like to show my appreciation for the tea.”

The door closes behind them, and a couple of minutes later, the beautiful, lilting melody of The Carpenters’ _We’ve Only Just Begun_ wafts out, carried along by the evening’s gentle breeze.   

 

* * *

 

 _We've only just begun to live_    
_White lace and promises_    
_A kiss for luck and we're on our way_    
_(We've only begun)_  

_Before the risin' sun, we fly_    
_So many roads to choose_    
_We'll start out walkin' and learn to run_    
_(And yes, we've just begun)_  

_Sharing horizons that are new to us_    
_Watching the signs along the way_    
_Talkin' it over, just the two of us_    
_Workin' together day to day_    
_Together_  

_And when the evening comes, we smile_    
_So much of life ahead_    
_We'll find a place where there's room to grow_    
_(And yes, we've just begun)_  

—We’ve Only Just Begun, The Carpenters (1970)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this (especially the research side of things!) and I'm happy with the way it turned out. The only regret I have is not having a scene that focuses solely on Mycroft's hands, hnnnngh. Oh well, next time, perhaps. 
> 
> Find me on my [writing blog](http://ivefoundmygoldfish.tumblr.com/) or at [mycroftshands](http://mycroftshands.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same story from Greg's perspective, featuring Mycroft's hands ;D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented/left kudos and encouraged me to write more in this verse!
> 
> If you need some inspiration to imagine a younger Mycroft and Greg, here you go: [Mycroft](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/99473175699/hooptedoodley-fuckyeahmarkgatiss-photo-set), [Greg](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/108473146412/laistemoonwhite-just-finished-capping-ruperts).

When Greg was young, he expected he’d take over his father’s business and enjoy the rolling hills, sprawling fields, and the friendly, close-knit community of the little country town forever.

However, life rarely turns out as planned.

At the age of 24, Greg’s Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology (Hons) hangs proudly from one of his walls, the framed document a culmination of four years at university, yet hardly conveying the challenges encountered while juggling his studies and a part-time job to supplement the funds received from his scholarship. Despite the completion of his undergraduate course, a pile of well-worn books sits on his desk, reviewed every night in preparation for the examination that will determine whether he can transfer into the Criminal Investigation Department once he reaches two years in uniform.

Having rented his current flat in London for those two years since graduating, he’s seen people come and go. The young, solemn gentleman moving into the flat two storeys below him is just another regular occurrence, just another neighbour with whom shared space is the only thing they have in common.

The weekend rolls around, and Greg has forgotten about his new neighbour until he looks out his window overlooking the road and his interest is piqued by a piano mover truck parked along the curbside, hazard lights flashing as the removalists carefully manoeuvre a Classic Grand out of the vehicle. From his vantage point, Greg can see the young gentleman on the pavement directing the removalists with a slender hand. Pianist’s hands.

The windows stay open well into the evening to flush out the evidence of a particularly tragic effort at dinner. A chilly breeze comes through, followed by the melodious strains of a piano wafting up from down below, warming Greg from head to toe.  

—

After catching bars of music here and there, Greg finally narrows the pianist’s regular practice times to an hour in the morning (although he can only make it for 30 minutes before heading off to work) and an hour in the evening.

It doesn’t take a genius to identify the pianist as a person of habit. Scheduled morning and afternoon practice times is the most obvious tell, yet there are more subtle things, like mornings allocated for uplifting, rejuvenating music, and, Greg suspects, evenings for a reflection of the day’s happenings. After all, it makes sense that as a form of self-expression, the pianist would use the post-work session to release the tensions built up during the day. The music played varies too—it’s not all scales and classical music, there are some familiar hit songs in the mix that Greg finds himself humming long after they’ve been played.

—

During the evenings, Greg’s thoughts occasionally stray to his neighbour: what kind of person is he? what kind of work does he do? what kind of hands can produce such beautiful music?

To some extent, Greg can puzzle bits and pieces of the pianist’s character through his music and habits, but it isn’t until one Sunday afternoon that Greg has an answer for at least one of his recurring questions.

He’s always had an eye for detail, and his studies and line of work have helped him hone that skill to draw informed conclusions from the details observed. When they briefly pass each other in the foyer—his neighbour on his way into the building and Greg on his way out—Greg’s gaze immediately zeroes in on the hand holding the door open.

Long, slender, _beautiful._

Just like the rest of him, Greg realises when he extends his focus to include the rest of the well-dressed man standing in front of him.

—

In the three months since his neighbour moved in, their paths don’t cross again—that one and only instance is indelibly etched into Greg’s memory and revisited time and time again. Yet Greg is content to continue listening from his sitting room, until one evening when he hears a barrage of discordant notes from below. Although there’s no distinct tune or song, the emotions conveyed are loud and clear: frustration, anger, pain.

Long after he’s shut his windows and turned all the lights off, Greg lies awake in bed, heart thumping rapidly as he feels the music from earlier resonate within him. He’s no stranger to those emotions—but he also understands the need to let it out in a healthy manner, and then allowing time to cool down and regain one’s balance. As his eyes finally grow heavy with drowsiness, Greg resolves to do something about it tomorrow.              

Morning comes, and Greg’s entire breakfast is spent wracking his brains for ideas. Given that he’s only met his neighbour once—and they hadn’t even exchanged words aside from ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’—expressing his concern in person feels rather presumptuous. No, he needs to devise a way to connect with his neighbour, to let him know someone is concerned for his wellbeing, while keeping his identify anonymous.

—

His palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry, and Greg doesn’t think he’s been so nervous as he stands in front of the door, acutely aware that his neighbour is just on the other side of the threshold, still playing a subdued melody. Nothing near as optimistic and upbeat compared to usual, from what he’d heard upstairs earlier on, but a definite improvement from what had transpired last night.

With thoughts of the previous evening bolstering his resolve, Greg reviews the post-it note in his clammy hand.

 _Sounds like you had a rough day yesterday, judging from last night’s piece,_ it reads. Reflecting on his own methods for relieving stress, he’d taped a PG Tips teabag to the paper and then fortified it with Blu Tack to ensure the adhesiveness would be able to sustain the additional weight. _Tea makes everything better. G._ Keeping his anonymity had been one of Greg’s key concerns, so he’d avoided signing off with his name or flat number and chosen instead to scrawl his initial as an identifying mark.    

Slipping the note under the door is already out of the question—the likelihood of it being trodden on is too high, if he can even fit the teabag through the narrow slot. Sticking his note to the door is what he’d come prepared for, and after a moment’s consideration, Greg decides to affix it at his neighbour’s eye level, recalling from memory that the pianist is only taller than him by an inch or so.

He doesn’t expect a response. However, that evening, the music is gentle and more harmonious. Greg sits by his window, eyes closed as he immerses himself in the beautifully-crafted sounds washing over him.

—

Although the week is hardly over, Greg feels drained—both physically and emotionally. He’s not naïve enough to expect that working in crime is without its challenges, but some of the happenings this week have resulted in more than a bit of an emotional battering. The only bright spot in his week is returning home and listening to his neighbour, who seems to be in a better place now.

After polishing off the Chinese takeaway he’d bought on his way home, Greg roots around for his post-it notes and starts writing.

_Sounds like you’re feeling better. Do you take requests? G._

Too tired to go down the flights of stairs, Greg leaves it on his benchtop, ready for him to stick it on his neighbour’s door upon leaving for work the next morning.

When he returns in the afternoon, struggling to put one foot in front of the other to make it up the stairs, he notices his yellow post-it note has disappeared, replaced by a green post-it note on his neighbour’s door. 

_As you have already surmised, I play according to my mood. However, if your request is within my ability and frame of mind, I can endeavour to do so to show my appreciation for the tea. Thank you. MH._

Greg’s face splits into a grin, because honestly, who even writes using proper Queen’s English these days? Still, given how much he knows about his neighbour–classically trained in music, posh clothing, financially well-off from a high-paying job or old money—it kind of suits the image he’s built of him in his mind.   

Suddenly rejuvenated, Greg takes the rest of the stairs up two at time, ducking into his flat to scrawl a response—there hadn’t been any space left on the green post-it note—and then hurrying back down to stick it on the door, hoping he’s put in his request before the pianist arrives home.

As it turns out, he has.

Midway through fixing his dinner with his windows open, Greg hears the first bars of John Lennon’s _Imagine._ Nothing requires his urgent attention, so he moves to his customary seat by the window and claps in appreciation and gratitude once the song is over, loud enough for his applause to reach his neighbour.

—

Knowing the pianist isn’t completely closed off to communication encourages Greg to continue writing his odd little post-it notes. Despite not having met properly in person—that one instance withstanding—Greg finds himself wanting to share his bad and good days with the pianist. After all, his neighbour does that on a regular basis through his music. 

Not wanting to come across as taking advantage, Greg tries not to make a habit of requesting songs. Still, he does feel a little surprised and more than a little special when his neighbour plays The Carpenters’ _Rainy Days and Mondays_ at his request after a shite day.

Sometimes he requests something to suit his mood, leaving the exact song choice to his neighbour. On a particularly good day when Greg had felt like celebrating, the pianist had gone above and beyond—picking not one song, but medleying several, starting with The Carpenters’ _Top of the World_ and finishing up with Gene Kelley’s _Singin’ in the Rain._ He’d been sure to give his written thanks for the last one, being a favourite musical number of his.

Most times, however, Greg is content to leave short, genuine comments of appreciation: _you play beautifully; hearing you play is the highlight of my day; what a heart-breaking, soulful rendition._

He’s careful to deliver his notes while his neighbour isn’t home. Not once does he make the overture to meet the pianist in person, being a little hesitant and a little scared to go step outside the anonymity and distance guaranteed by their current arrangement.

It’s a decision he sincerely regrets, especially as Christmas rolls around and the music stops. The last piece he heard was a couple of nights before Christmas Eve: Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons’ _December, 1963 (Oh, What a Night.)_

At the time, Greg hadn’t given it any thought, thinking perhaps his neighbour had left to visit family or go on vacation. Mere speculation, since there’s no reason for his neighbour to report his life decisions or monthly schedule to him.

—

Following his success in becoming a Detective Constable, Greg’s work responsibilities and shifts change in the new year, but he still hasn’t heard anything. Concerned, he starts following up on things, asking certain people questions, utilising the knowledge from his studies and line of work to direct his personal investigation. From what he can see, even if his neighbour did go away over the Christmas break, he’s definitely here now. The landlord hadn’t mentioned a removalist truck, the mailbox isn’t overflowing or dusty, and the hand oils on the door handles are quite recent.

It crosses Greg’s mind that perhaps his own change in schedule is the reason he hasn’t heard anything, so he calls in sick the next day. It’s a productive day--Greg vacuums and mops and scrubs the entire day with his windows wide open, and his flat has never looked more spotless. Nevertheless, throughout the day and evening, he hears nothing. Not even scales.

In hindsight, Greg realises he probably would have had better luck keeping an eye out to see if he could catch his neighbour coming and going, but just the thought of it feels a little too close to _pining_ for his liking _._

Equally confused and concerned, Greg putters about in his own flat some more, finally deciding to communicate with his neighbour in the only way he knows how.

_I haven’t heard you play for a while. Are you okay?_

Discouraged from receiving no response that evening—not through song or paper—Greg falls into an uneasily sleep, thoughts of his neighbour staying close to the forefront of his mind.

Clocking half an hour of overtime has left him feeling irritable and tired, and the cursory glance at his neighbour’s empty door does nothing to improve his mood. The post-it note and tea have gone, yet nothing has replaced it. Greg frowns and trudges up the rest of stairs. As soon as he steps into his flat, he makes a beeline for the windows and then flops onto the couch. Ordering takeaway can wait another 15 minutes; for now, he just wants to put his feet up and relax.

In the middle of mentally reviewing the menu for the Indian restaurant two streets down, the first hesitant notes of a piano float up to his window, slowly gaining confidence, and then escalating into something fuller and more expressive.

The music reaches a crescendo, then peters off into a mellow, hopeful ending.

Barely remembering to grab his keys, Greg races out of his flat and down the stairs to knock insistently on the door that’s become so familiar to him. 

Although his brain is finally catching up with his body, and panic mode has him on the verge of bolting, Greg blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind after the door opens. “I missed you.”

The man on the other side of the door blinks.

“I-I mean, I missed hearing you play,” Greg corrects, tripping over his words—words that won’t stop tumbling out of his mouth. “At first, I thought you might be sick—flu, or sprained finger, or hand, even—and then not long after my patrol shifts were changed, and it hit me that the times we were both in might not overlap anymore. Can you believe I threw a sickie and stayed home the entire day to see if you’d play at all?”

Laughing nervously, he can feel his ears burning up, yet his great, big gob just won’t stop flapping.

“Part of me actually thought you’d left, but no one saw a truck…”

Greg trails off, finally realising his neighbour hasn’t uttered a word since opening the door. And that he’s exposed far more than he ever expected to.

In an attempt at damage control, Greg casts his gaze downwards and mutters, “Bloody hell, you must I’m a right idiot, blabbering on like that about nothing. Just ignore me, I’ll be going now.”

Suddenly, his neighbour speaks up in a clear voice—his well-rounded vowels and Queen’s English evident in every word spoken. “I apologise for causing you concern. Several times, in fact, Mister…”

“Greg, Greg Lestrade,” he fills in, thankful his brain and mouth have finally decided to work in tandem, and not to his detriment.

“Greg,” the man repeats smoothly, without hesitation. “I’m Mycroft. Do you want to come in?”

“Can I really?” Unbidden, a brilliant smile spreads across Greg’s face at the unexpected invitation.

The corners of his neighbour’s eyes—no, _Mycroft’s_ eyes—soften, and the corners of his mouth tilt up into a small, shy smile. “I’d like to show my appreciation for the tea.”

A sense of déjà vu washes over Greg as Mycroft holds the door open for him, and his gaze flicks over to the slender hand. Pianist’s hands. Beautiful hands.

In front of him, the Steinway Classic Grand takes centre stage in the sitting room, polished ebony and elegant curves contrasting beautifully with the white walls and wooden flooring.

Suddenly, Greg is overcome with the desire to see Mycroft play, however the pianist is nothing but a consummate host.

“Can I offer you any tea?” Mycroft asks, once Greg is comfortably seated. “I have Honey Lemon & Balm PG Tips, or some overseas varieties, if you prefer.”

“No, thank you,” he declines politely. Although Greg hates to come across as presumptuous or rude, he’s near-bursting at the seams. “Can I just—would it be possible to see you play, please?”

“Of course, that was my intention.”

Mycroft strides across the room, and Greg’s breath catches in his throat. The Classic Grand may take centre stage in the flat, but it is Mycroft sitting at the piano, with his perfect posture and pin-stripe waistcoat and graceful hands poised over the keys that captivates Greg’s attention entirely.

As if he can feel the intensity of Greg’s focus, Mycroft clears his throat, the pale skin of his nape flushing pink. “You must excuse me; it’s been a while since I’ve played for someone.”

Greg nods.  

Counted in by a beat only audible to him, Mycroft begins, and Greg drowns in the beauty of it.

Seeing Mycroft in his element is beyond anything Greg could have imagined. From where Greg sits, the light catches becomingly on the silk backing of Mycroft’s waistcoat, the play of his muscles becoming evident when the thin material is pulled taut as he moves with the music.

Though Mycroft’s eyes are closed at times, his slender fingers press the right keys with unerring accuracy, drawing out harmonies to complement the sweet, hopeful melody. Without sheet music to limit him, his lithe and agile hands traverse the entire piano, moving from octave to octave, dancing between the black keys and the white, the expression of Mycroft’s soul reaching Greg with each note played.

“That was incredible,” Greg breathes, unable to keep the awe and amazement out of his voice once the song comes to an end. “ _You’re_ incredible, Mycroft.”

Mycroft swivels slightly on his piano stool to face him, embarrassment showing up on his pale complexion. His shy gaze darts from Greg’s face to the clock mounted on the wall, then back again. “Would you… would you like to hear more?”

With the melody and promise from The Carpenters’ _We’ve Only Just Begun_ still resonating deep within him, Greg smiles. “I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choose your preferred waistcoat and shirtsleeves combo for Mycroft [here](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/156332658210/theyankeeanglophiliac-codenameantarctica). My personal favourite for the last scene is [this one](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/156431289351/saziikins-beneguinsophiebatch-sherlockstuff). 
> 
> I've added the [original version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1j1RRWcYSg&list=PLs2WLuS5XPWCQ7d-s7JIUlE0Lnd8dG11z&index=15) and a [piano cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nVoP-m4bw4&index=16&list=PLs2WLuS5XPWCQ7d-s7JIUlE0Lnd8dG11z) of Frankie Valli's _Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You_ to the playlist, because Greg eventually cajoles Mycroft into playing this for him eventually (not that it's a real hardship for the closet romantic sap, let's be honest).


End file.
